


Spies Like Us

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-07-19 17:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Logan's job title --Naval Intelligence Officer--is a bit more euphemistic than Veronica realizes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a bit glummer than I usually write, folks; but I had to maintain the tone of season 4, even though I'm going AU. Hope you all enjoy anyway!

The first text arrives while he’s on his second beer with Parker. They’ve run out of fifteen-years stories, at least those sanitized enough to share with a semi-stranger; the topic has shifted to freedom vs responsibility, the sole point of contention during their easygoing fling. He leaned harder than she did towards freedom, back in college, and finds his new position tough to defend. So he’s glad when the buzz in his pocket gives an excuse to step away.

_Clear your schedule and put your affairs in order_ , is what the message says, just sent from his colleague’s latest burner. _I’ve heard rumblings._

He smiles, faintly; for-those-about-to-die humor was always his jam. But, _no can do_ , he replies. Because he bluffed and proposed in a vulnerable moment, and his bluff was called for unknown reasons, so shockingly, he’s altar-bound. _I’m getting married in four hours._

_Pack first_ is the only answer.

Logan sighs, checks the time, sighs again. Texts Keith and grovels so he’ll pick up the marriage license, then returns to the table doing his best imitation of contrition.

“You need to go,” Parker guesses, flashing the rueful smile he finds so charming. “So do I, actually--but it was nice, catching up. You seem…healthy. I guess it’s good to confirm, after all these years, that the crap we endured in 2007 was just a…momentary roadblock.”

“Ha, I knew you’d be fine.” He throws down two crisply-folded bills with a flourish. Holds out a hand to help her rise and offers a friendly hug. “You’re an optimist, you make the best of things. But I never mind seeing my prescient brilliance confirmed.”

She pats him on the back, pulls away to search his face, very slightly frowning. “Have a great happily ever after, Logan Echolls. Can’t say I expected you and Veronica to be the fairy tale, but…I guess some things are just fate?”

He winks, essays a floridly-regal bow for old time’s sake, then spins to walk away. Lets the easygoing smile drop as he scans his surroundings, takes his time unlocking the bike. Situational awareness is standard at this point; something so drilled into him, like posture, by years of service he doesn’t always recognize fight-or-flight. But there’s a low hum of excitement, singing along his nerves…and ignoring intuition never pays.

_Get your affairs in order_ was a hint he can’t ignore. And he only has forty-five minutes before his appointment with Jane.

He rides fast, putting the grueling work he’s done on his quads to use, through the ever-more-gentrified streets of lower Neptune. Towards the unassuming, but climate-controlled, storage facility where he keeps tools of the trade Veronica can’t rifle (plus stuff that won’t fit in their beach-front shed).

The door requires a code-- Veronica would bulldog him over an unknown key--and he types it in quickly with one hand while mentally listing supplies. Burners, bugs, passports, cash. Guns for both ankle and shoulder holsters, utility knife, MRE’s. Ammo, duplicate dog-tags, shellfish-allergy medic-alert bracelet and epi pens, XStat wound-sealing syringes and first-aid kit, amphetamines, painkillers and tranquilizers. Night vision goggles, flares, hand-and-foot warmers; all-weather gear, bug spray and sunscreen. Reflective blanket, fire starters, last will and testament, plus the carefully-separate components of plastique. He hesitates over the picture of himself with Lilly, Veronica and Duncan, which he keeps in a frame turned towards the wall. Decides, ultimately, to leave it. He won’t lead anyone, ever, in the direction of his stubbornly-loved almost-wife.

Finally, he eases back the blanket covering his brand-new 911, smiles as he runs a palm along the fender. “Hey there, baby,” he says, testing the paint for scratches. “Still beautiful but bad for the environment, I see. It’s crazy how much we have in common.”

He packs quickly, efficiently, stashes the go bag in his miniscule trunk, shrugging at the tightness in his shoulders. Wishes he had time to meditate and stretch. These are luxuries, though, and if he’s going dark he needs to see Jane first; put words of inspiration in the mental bank to carry him through tough times. His shrink’s like a talisman, these days…proof he tries to be a better man, no matter how grim life gets. Proof he’s worth the faith Veronica places in him by sharing her home. Proof he’s become the hero she once dreamed of, even if she fails to appreciate the reality.

Then he slides his bike onto the rack at the back and drives out before locking up. The thrum of the precision engine vibrates up through his bones, echoing the buzz along his nerves, and he hopes these precautions are so much overkill.

Jane welcomes him with a hug, sensitive as always to his need for comforting touch; begins the delicate dance past his defenses to reach truths he needs to spill. He’s marrying Veronica in less than two hours--he’ll achieve the one thing in life he thought he never could.

When Jane asks the only germane question, though— _is this what you really want_ —his usual verbal nimbleness deserts him. Because yes, himself plus V is his life-long dream, the fantasy that got him through a million dark moments. Despite the shit-show of his parents’ marriage, despite each previous relationship ending in a crash-and-burn. But right this second, Veronica seems to loathe his every trait and choice, and he’s still unsure why she said yes, so he can’t quite manage to nod. He DOES love his girlfriend…fiancée…more than anyone, but he’s not sure she reciprocates. And if she’s lost that feeling, so to speak…accepting rejection with grace seems easier than clinging.

Jane’s disappointed by his lack of follow through--he can tell by the way her mouth quirks sideways. And since this may be the last time he sees her, for months or maybe ever, her displeasure haunts him. Maybe that’s why, once he’s parked in the corner of a movie lot a block from his apartment, and trekked home to change into a suit, he calls her while waiting for his Uber. Lists all the reasons he admires Veronica—to convince Jane or himself, he’s not sure, how committed he remains.

Some barely-a-Millennial in a grey Subaru pulls to the curb as he hangs up, so he collects the ring box and stashes his will in the nightstand. Puts down food and water for Pony, then makes the dog sit so they can hug goodbye. “I’m sure as soon as I leave you’ll climb on the couch,” he tells the closest thing he may get to a child. “But have the decency to wait till I’m gone. This seemingly-rock-solid self-esteem was actually hard-won.”

He tosses his suit coat over one arm as Pony licks his face; takes a last look around the place he’s lived for years, first so happily, later so determinedly. Locks up and walks downstairs, whistling _Sway_ , remembering days gone by when romantic setbacks still seemed epic.

His phone buzzes in his palm as he’s researching cheap-enough-not-to-make-V-suspicious honeymoon destinations. _Don’t get on a plane_ is the first message, sent thirty minutes back, while he was too freaked out by Jane’s questions to notice. Then, more ominously, a siren emoji--symbol of cover blown. His or hers, he’s not sure, but now he’s extra-glad he’s left behind a will. He checks his watch—3:47—and deletes all incriminating messages. Texts _sorry_ , in case needs must, and he fails to make V a slightly-more-honest woman. Queues up _stuck in traffic_ , and fervently hopes needs mustn’t.

All works out, in the end, even if he does have to run through the courthouse hall; even if he is coated with a film of sweat when he shakes his almost-father-in-law’s hand. Veronica’s in a panic, of course, confronting him over his ominous text. So he sends the sequel with his thumb before showing her proof of innocence, and lets himself enjoy the resulting kisses. She hasn’t worn makeup for the occasion, hasn’t done her hair, and she’s wearing a white dress that reminds him forcibly of Shelly Pomroy’s party—on purpose, at least subconsciously, he suspects. But she loves him, he wants desperately to believe she does, and she grips his hands tightly as she waits to hear _I do._ So he fights back strangely-inappropriate tears and says his lines, then asks permission to kiss her (because that’s what she both wants and doesn’t, these days). Slides the ring on her finger and thinks _mission accomplished. Items remaining on my bucket list, zero._

They walk hand-in-hand back to the apartment, she rejects the Grand Canyon and Yosemite but accepts Sedona along the way. Heads straight for the shower upon entering, instead of initiating the honeymoon he’d prefer. He sighs— a big sighing day, it seems--then groans as the street-cleaning notification dings. Of COURSE she parked in the wrong spot again, it’s like she’s privately at war with the meter maid.

His phone buzzes as he skips downstairs, but he ignores it; Veronica’s leaning out the window like an angry, small Rapunzel, shouting something non-romantic. About Fiji maybe, he’s not sure, a lot of noise filters back from the beach, plus he can’t read her lips through the setting-sun glare. He opens the car door as she turns away, and feels all the hair on the back of his neck rise.

The first thing he notices is the dead body, minus both head and hands, sprawled across the center console. The second is a backpack in the rear-seat foot-well, ticking.

_Fuck_ , he thinks, as training takes over, adrenaline spikes, and the word splinters into microsecond-slo-mo. Kicks off the brake and throws the car in neutral so it’ll roll downhill, away from homes; spins and spots the meter maid inching down the road. He yanks her passenger door open, flings himself onto the floorboards and smashes the brake with his hand as, a hundred feet away, Veronica’s car explodes.

His heart pounds, he smells hot metal and burning tires and fights not to flash back to Afghanistan, where bodies in pieces once carpeted the path around him. Sits up, barks “OUT!” and throws the car into reverse as soon as its frowsy occupant complies…not even thinking, really, just obeying the urge to escape. Looks past his shoulder to navigate the mostly-empty street until he’s two blocks away, sheltered safely under a Sac-N-Pac awning. Remembers the text of minutes past, and pulls out his phone with one asphalt-scraped hand.

_Congratulations, you’re dead in 180 seconds_ , it says. _Keep clear of Veronica’s car, get somewhere safe, and pick me up at the corner of Wilton and Alameda._

_Fabulous,_ he thinks, a word he mentally pronounces the way Lilly did. Wishes Veronica wasn’t dog-with-bone about perceived betrayals, so he could have let the _sorry_ text stand. He motors out of the bodega lot towards the cinema, where he disables the street sweeper before abandoning it amidst trees. Clears and smashes his cell and pockets the sim. He tosses the detritus tidily into a wastebasket— _littering never pays_ \-- then sinks into his leather seat with a tweaked-trapezius huff, and drives grimly towards the rendezvous.

Nicole’s sprawled on a bus bench waiting, smoking a clove and dressed in black, her own go-bag on the weathered seat beside her. She tosses the butt and slinks over while he parks; he smirks as she climbs inside. He’s never met anyone not named Echolls as prone as she to stylish drama.

“Felicitations on your wedding day,” she says, with irony, as she shuts the door. Tosses her bag in the back, where it lands with a clank. She strips off the dreadlocked wig she’s been wearing all year as he eases past the curb, revealing her own close-cropped hair; grimaces as she removes the fake nose ring, then rolls down the window to toss it out.

“Thank you, we’re registered at Crate and Barrel.” Smoothly, he navigates a right turn. “Fingers crossed you’ll buy us a blender, despite your recent re-gift of a body and bomb.”

“The bomb was Epner.” She sinks into the seat with a groan and unzips her platform boot. “Wanted to string along your little blonde with amateur-hour explosives and weak limericks. I figured out it was there just by watching footage of the Kane School bomb scare, but I suppose you in that suit shut off her brain.”

_Bomb scare?_ he thinks, but what he says, with a smirk, is, “Fiji. Of course. I told you I’d always planned on Fiji for a honeymoon. And you think you’re a comedian, so you bought pizza and passed that fact along.”

“Oh I’m hilarious. You see, the joke’s on him.” She buckles a watch and climbs between seats to rummage in the bag; comes up with a pair of sneakers which she bends to lace. “I put evidence in the public record we may need later, via that body dump, while simultaneously covering your ass. And by the way, you owe ME, not vice-versa; I DIDN’T punch your dainty helpmate when I learned she’d BUGGED MY OFFICE.”

“She what?” he snorts amusement, because Veronica, and adds, “Why, pray tell? Also, should I be heading somewhere specific? Or are we circling the Dog Beach boardwalk indefinitely, like ghosts?”

“Private airfield on Loma Vista,” she says. “I’ve chartered a plane…I hope you still remember how to fly. They want us in Maryland for debrief before we’re sent south. And I pray your Spanish is better than your Arabic; as it stands, you’ll have trouble fitting in.”

“Pshaw, I’m a chameleon.” He jerks a thumb at his chest. “Son of a three-time Oscar winner, lying’s practically my only skill. But yes, my Spanish is passable. Not as good as the Russian I learned in early black-ops years; but then again, I was highly motivated to infiltrate the Sorokin mob without dying.”

“Passable won’t keep our skins intact.” She shoots him a look. “It works solely for people who still exist on paper.”

“Am I really most sincerely dead?” he asks, praying for a no. Because he’s sure Veronica’s crying right now, and he hates to think of her unhappy. Hates to hurt her, though he invariably does—he’s never quite managed to make her truly happy. “Or just AWOL until our targets bite it?”

She shrugs. “D’Amato started sniffing around. Maybe he saw me tossing shots in a plant, the night he pawed your adoring spouse in my club. Or had a premonition of doom—his cover-up of El Despaidado’s first beheading was weak sauce. He began with credit checks, then ran deep background on both of us, before starting favor-trading phone calls testing my cover. I sent an anon text hinting at his Lilly Kane Murder Tapes indiscretion, whereupon activities ceased. But he’s linked our personas, somehow, yours and mine…and he’s highly motivated to dig deeper.” She glances sideways, the expression on her face opaque, as they leave the boardwalk for the less-lit highway--but Logan detects a trace of sympathy. “I don’t know what you see in the Mars girl, Echolls. She’s adorable, certainly, with a vulnerability that breaks the heart. But our crooked Fed walked her home the other night, and no doubt left DNA all over your miniscule couch.”

_Leo_ , Logan thinks, with a sardonic twist of lips, plus a slow-creeping sense of fatalism _. Of course._ _Blandly-charming assholes are Veronica’s crack-- and her stabs at respectability ever motivated by guilt._ “I should have narced on that guy in high school,” he says, with a faint, self-disgusted head-shake; because he’d let himself believe, for a few days, that Veronica truly loved him till death do us part. “I had immunity from prosecution and everything. But Keith worked so hard to cover up D’Amato’s crimes…it seemed like an idiot move if I wanted to date his daughter.”

“Shame you led with your heart,” she says. “Or cock, who can say? I had the whole submarine-to-beach trafficking scheme worked out down to details, and there’s that nexus at Maloof you still haven’t explained…”

“I ripped the electronics in the suite while I was babysitting,” he interrupts, with a hand-wave. “Except the kid’s cell, he never puts it down. Turned in video of a hit ordered by the congressman on--you’ll like this, it’s cute—a chipped fake-milkshake card, that’s making its way up the chain as we speak. Then I tracked down some incel hacker with vids of Maloof begging trafficked girls to kick him, those should be in your Dropbox already.”

“Savory work we do, innit?” She snorts. “Or did do. I suppose we’ll have to end El Despaidado at the source, now.”

“Not my fault I had to day-trip to Mogadishu.” He shakes off gloom because he’s dead-dead, and the job remains the job--so what’s the point of wishing he could beg Veronica to explain? “Leaving you to fail at protecting V from D’Amato…and Weidman to let our best lead get shot.”

“He’s losing it.” She points right so he doesn’t miss the dirt-road turn to the airstrip. “Clarence, I mean. He needs to get out of the game, never would have been this sloppy in his prime. Course he’s US Army, so what do you expect? Inferior branches of service never shine.”

“Says my very own personal 007.” He parks inside the hangar, as instructed, and takes the time to pat the car one more time as he climbs out. “Hate to love and leave you after such a short time, baby, but seems that’s the running theme. And just when I had everyone convinced I’d changed.”

“You?” Nicole snorts, and he bobs his brows at her as he collects his bag. Texts Keller with the location of the vehicle using his burner, then hides his keys under the mat. “Hardly, I’ve seen you fight. Starts with sand-in-the-face or a nut-punch every time.”

“Once a bad boy, always a bad boy.” He shrugs, pretending insouciance, as he shoulders his gear, although the words sting. “And for your information, my combat form is flawless.”

“Not as flawless as mine.” She shoots him with a Veronica-esque finger gun that makes his heart hurt; mounts the first step to the sleek Cessna which sits, prepped, on the runway. “Now move your arse, Captain. You’ve been dead almost an hour, the night’s not getting younger.”

He does a slow turn, one last. They’re up on a hill so he can see the Neptune skyline, grey and gleaming below them in growing dark, froth of beach barely visible at the horizon. Home, the worst place on Earth—but he came back anyway, because it’s what Veronica wanted. He wonders if she’ll stay, once she accepts he’s gone. Wonders if she’ll make someone pay for his murder, if she cares enough, still, to fight that hard. Wonders how much she’ll grieve for the twenty-three years they shared, before she decides, inevitably, to move on.

“So the body in my car,” he says, repressing pain with a decisive inhale. Because he’s got no choice about this path, he never has--not since the day he sold his soul to keep V safe from Sorokin. The decisions in his life are made by others, while he stands at attention, ever-ready. “Let me guess. Magursky kid?”

“Got it in one.” She turns, framed in the doorway, hands braced on either side. “El Despaidado’s charming friends left him in a kayak shack near First. I had to saw his hands off and toss them in the ocean when I realized he’d be impersonating you, THAT was a fun afternoon spent.”

“Needs must,” he says, with a shrug, and climbs up after. Settles in the cockpit with a sense of homecoming as she retracts the stairs and secures the door.

“The guiding principle of our lives.” She buckles in beside him as the engine begins to hum. Vibrating through his thighs like the car he hates to ditch, motor-propelled power wholly under his control--sense of freedom looming, and an open sky. “We achieve the impossible no matter the cost, because if we don’t…who will?”

_Veronica_ , he thinks, easing the throttle forward, so they begin a steadily-increasing taxi. _Nothing in life is certain except that one truth_. “Well, then let’s hear it for God, guns, guts and glory,” he says, with a well-faked lilt, as they accelerate. Smiles at the stomach-drop as they launch themselves into the sky.


	2. Chapter 2

She thinks she sees him everywhere.

Even that first week, when all she does is sit on the couch, in sweats and a tee she dragged from the laundry because they smell like him—she’ll turn her head, open her eyes, and think he’s there, lurking at the periphery of her vision. Smirking, spinning to walk backwards, brushing his teeth like it’s performance art. Taking up half the space in tiny rooms. Too strong and vital to simply disappear.

Shae appears every morning, bearing a covered dish, after dropping Noah off at daycare; she walks Pony before heading to work. Wallace turns up every evening after school, walks Pony again, transfers the barely-touched food to Tupperwares and takes the pan home. Most afternoons her dad shows and stays through his lunch break, simply watching TV beside her, making the occasional wisecrack. She leans on his shoulder sometimes but doesn’t speak, and it seems like he understands.

The second week, Mac returns from Istanbul and promptly moves in, parking herself on the couch’s miniscule fold-out and using half the pans to cook Logan would. Pony abandons Veronica’s bed to sleep beside her, the better to watch the door for a return that won’t come; it’s all right, though. V doesn’t mind.

Her husband died because of HER failures, her neglect. There’s no bad guy but herself to further punish. If she let any living thing depend on her, ever again, it wouldn’t be remotely fair.

On the ninth day, once the crime scene is analyzed and the…remains sent off for testing, she’s paid a visit by a man in uniform named Keller, who introduces himself as Logan’s commanding officer; tall, dark and spare, with a deceptively low-key mien, the guy reeks of spy by virtue of seeming too normal. He offers his condolences and the just-in-case letter from Logan’s files, which V sets on the side table without reading…then explains the DNA from the explosion was a match for Aunt Naomi’s. The tension in the apartment grows so thick, Mac has to lock a growling Pony in the bedroom.

Veronica almost cries when he hands her the death certificate, because until this moment, some magical-thinking part of her felt none of this was real--since she never SAW Logan die, maybe he somehow didn’t. But the depression that crept over her after the whole-family murder last year has grown deep and drowning, so all she can manage is a nod. This means a funeral is scheduled for Arlington in two months’ time, with only her most tacit consent, and paperwork to divert Logan’s pension into her account is left for a distant, proactive day. Finally, after failing to engage her in dialogue, Keller non-descriptly bows himself out.

Once he’s gone, Mac sets to work making brownies, because it ‘seems like a chocolate emergency’. As soon as the pan has cooled, she hands it to Veronica with a fork.

“I need to close Logan’s bank account,” V muses, twisting the tines through the cake, still not able to summon hunger. “I need to execute his will. He left it in the nightstand, you know, the day…wasn’t there, twenty-four hours before. It’s like he knew the end was near.”

“One thing about Logan, you couldn’t fault his instincts.” Mac makes a face, like she knows this statement is a faux-pas but has no clue how to correct; sits beside Veronica, spoon in hand, and appropriates the pan. “He had great taste in wives, terrible taste in friends, and a delicate sense of when to turn up sweet.”

Veronica grimaces—she will not cry, will not cry—and Mac adds, “I’ll help you—with the accounts, I mean. Probably you can merge them online, assuming they’re at the same bank. I’ll make the appointment with his lawyers, too; you just sit, and eat, or even sleep for a change of pace.”

Pony whines from behind the bedroom door. Mac hands the brownies back and heads off to set him free; returns with the will, and arranges herself and her laptop at the breakfast bar. The dog hops up beside Veronica, resting his head on her lap. She gazes at the letter from Logan for a moment, then stashes it in the end-table drawer.

Time passes. Mac’s fingers click on the keyboard, she murmurs into a headset; she hooks up a scanner so she can email wedding and death certificates, time-stamped an hour apart. Eventually Veronica’s required to submit her electronic signature--after this she returns to the couch while Mac studies Logan’s statements.

“Okay, looks like the Navy’s on top of rerouting the paychecks, his benefits, all that jazz, and I’ve transferred water, electric and internet into your name.” Mac removes the headphones with a swipe of one hand and ruffles her hair. “The storage facility doesn’t have interactive stuff on their website, though, so I’m afraid you’ll have to handle that one in person.”

“The what now?” Veronica lifts her head from contemplation of the ceiling, and Pony licks her fingers. “We don’t…I don’t…this is the first I’ve heard of a storage unit.”

Mac points at her screen, so Veronica gets up—thinks she sees him leaning in the doorway out of the corner of her eye, _don’t look, don’t look, Lilly’s ghost wasn’t real and neither is he_. Shuffles over to study the monthly U-Haul debits and murmurs, “Three hundred DOLLARS? It must be HUGE.”

“I mean, this is California, nothing’s cheap, but…” Mac clicks over to another page that lists pricing, “Looks like a 12x12 footer. Not insubstantial, you could probably fit the contents of this apartment in there.”

“I’ll tell you what he’s not warehousing--his mother’s art.” Veronica continues to frown at the page, because this doesn’t compute. Logan’s a boy scout now; it’s true he doesn’t tell her much, but he never, ever lies. “He sold those paintings to pay for college, had some weird fetish about not touching his trust fund. And what else could he OWN? He’s spent his whole life, since his house burned down, living in hotels and aircraft carriers or crashing with friends. He’s like…he WAS like…some warrior-monk crazy person with a ripped…”

She trails off, because it hurts remembering--if she’d just asked him to join her in the shower, he wouldn’t be dead. Then realizes this is something she can latch onto. This is a mystery to solve. It’s tied to him, it needs investigation, and investigation’s the only thing she was ever good at, anyway.

Determination gathering, she crosses to the bathroom for a hair tie, winds her snarled locks up in a knot. Kicks her feet into tennis shoes, grabs her bag, and is reaching for her keys when Mac asks, “Veronica, what are you doing?”

“Going to the storage facility,” she says, crossing back to the computer to enter the address into her phone’s map. “Come along if you want, I don’t mind.”

Mac insists on driving the insurance-company loaner, Veronica’s sole form of transportation (since Logan’s bike’s missing, and the claim hasn’t processed). V allows it, because she can’t be trusted…and no, that’s NOT Logan, flipping his keys around his finger on the bus bench. They cruise through town as the sun sets, windows cracked to let in brine and sunscreen scents from the nearby beach. It doesn’t seem like it can still be spring break, a million years ought to have passed, but it is. It may always be. Veronica wonders if Matty’s still living in a room of the hotel without AC. Further wonders why Matty hasn’t once stopped by, but can’t cling to the thought.

Better the kid stays away. Better no one comes close. She’d chase Mac out if she could; but Mac’s bigger than her, also wily, and has Pony’s full support.

The destination to which the GPS leads them is wholly un-Logan; modest, in a quiet area at the edge of the incorporated township where population is sparse. The business is well-maintained, though, and the Opie-esque teenage clerk polite enough not to comment on unwashed hair and outsized clothes. He frowns, though, comparing the death and wedding certificate dates, before looking up with patent dismay. “This is…wow,” he says, softly. “I’m really sorry.”

Veronica stares at him, stony, and he turns pink. “Right.” He transfers focus to his hands, typing quickly into the computer. “It’s unit 443, around the back, he’s had the same one for fifteen years. I’ll show you.”

He leads them through a code-locked door and into the facility, which proves, Tardis-style, bigger on the inside, a large chunk of the structure set into a copse of trees. Halts beside the numbered plaque with a nervous wave and says, “Here you go. Make two lefts to come back out through the office--or you can use the exit on the other end of the unit.”

“This is a code lock,” Veronica says, gazing at the keypad, her heart beating staccato for reasons she can’t explain. “So what’s the code?”

“Um, did your husband not share that information? Because we don’t….there’s no space on the form for that, I’m not privy. It’s eight digits…maybe you could try his birthday?”

She turns her cold stare on him, and he shrugs and flees.

Mac eases up beside her as she contemplates the pad. “We could take a trip to Radio Shack, buy some gear. I might be able to hack this Aliens-style, given enough time.”

“These allow more than three tries, right?” Veronica shoots a glance at Mac, who’s watching her with brows raised—as if the fact that she’s speaking, focused, is unexpected. Her friend nods, though, so Veronica considers, then types Lynn’s birthday.

The light flashes red, and she frowns. Tries Logan’s birthday, then her own, then, with a clenching of her jaw, the date of Lilly’s death. Red, red, red--maybe Logan DID pay attention to her constant harping about random passwords, and how nobody uses them but everyone should. She inputs the date he returned from his first tour, which was also the night they moved in together, and again fails.

Then she recalls the clerk’s comment, and realizes what the answer must be. Types May 23rd, 2007; the day Logan beat up Gory Sorokin, then apologized to both herself and Piz before walking out of her life. The lock clicks open and the light glows green.

It takes their combined strength to lift the door, made, as it is, of reinforced steel-- a light flickers on as they do so, revealing a rectangular space. To the left is a garage-type door, probably activated by the wall-mounted button beside it. Center-stage, a mass of beige cloth lies discarded on the floor, and to the right, sturdy steel shelves reach up seven feet—all filled with medical supplies and weapons.

“Holyyyyy shit,” Mac breathes, as Veronica hurriedly shoves the door down behind them, flicks a switch on the wall to restore light. “What the ever-loving FRAK?”

“Don’t touch anything,” Veronica says, as inside her, something comes alive—on point, almost, the way she used to get in high school, when some random crime occurred and she felt sure Logan was guilty. She scans the shelves, noting the obsessive organization and symmetry which is…was…his hallmark; the fact that each object has at least one duplicate. She pulls out her cell, photographs everything, then begins methodically to list items that seem missing. Guns, ammunition, first-aid kit, camping gear….epi pens. Did he pack all this stuff to take to Mogadishu? Wouldn’t he have a rack of military-issued equipment at the base, which they’d insist he use instead?

“Those are explosives.” Mac points at an upper shelf, and frowns when Veronica nods and keeps typing into her cell. “No reaction?” she insists. “Your recently-deceased superhero husband had, like, a secret mass-murderer den, and all you want to do here is take NOTES? Oh my God, Logan’s been inside my HOME!”

“He’s not a mass…” Veronica spots a small picture frame, flips it carefully over, gazes down into four smiling, fifteen-year-old faces…and something cracks inside her heart. Some sense of distance, of numbness, that’s kept her existing this last week, though nothing can ever be good again.

Tears well up, and she sinks to the floor holding the picture between her hands. Sophomore prom night was THE moment for her, with Logan—the night she realized, for the first time, that the crush she harbored was not one-sided. That they affected each other, even though everyone they cared about stood between them. That some strange gravity made them circle each other endlessly, no matter how estranged they became.

“Veronica?” Mac asks, hesitant, from behind, and she jerks and sniffs, casts around for her bag to locate a tissue. Her hand brushes the cloth on the floor and she grabs it, wiping wet eyes on her sleeve to better inspect. It’s unexpectedly soft, almost furry. Nothing abrasive about the nap in either direction. It’s chamois.

“This is a CAR COVER,” she realizes, shaking the object at Mac, and her voice holds so much intensity her friend takes a step back. “An EXPENSIVE car cover, the kind he always used to put on that BMW he loved--until I wrecked it fleeing the bridge sharpshooter, two years back. The kind he would NEVER just leave on the floor, he has a fetish for folding things into the smallest possible squares, so I ask you…” she glances around the room dramatically to punctuate, “Where, Cindy Mackenzie, is the CAR?”

“I think he took it at some point,” Mac says, pointing behind Veronica. “Because isn’t that his bike?”

Spinning, she spots at the Schwinn hanging from the wall and remembers—Logan, that last day, carrying his ten-speed outside to fetch the marriage license. She watched him ride away through the window while she ate yogurt, so turned out and brimming with romance she couldn’t stop herself from swooning. “He showed up at the courthouse in an Uber,” she murmurs, every wheel in her brain spinning at top speed. “We walked home. He HID this car from me, I had no clue it EXISTED. But where is it NOW?”

“We should go back to the apartment,” Mac says, in a quiet voice, like she’s talking to a crazy person. And maybe she is. But that doesn’t matter, because Logan drove a secret vehicle somewhere, that last day, which is now missing. It’s another mystery, a knotty one, and V needs to learn what it MEANS.

“Yeah, good idea. We can go over his statement history, find out when he bought this thing and how; then I can pretend to be Marcia and call the DMV to get the registration and plates. AFTER which, I’ll report it stolen, and the COPS will have to help me find it. Almost TOO easy.” She stands and shoulders her purse, shoves the framed photo inside. “Cake.”

“Listen,” Mac starts, but Veronica turns a glare on her so ferocious she abandons the sentence. “Fine. But then I’m making dinner, which you WILL consume. If you’re going to investigate perfidy, you need your strength.”

“Sure,” Veronica says, not paying attention, as she strides across the room to press the button on the wall. The rear door creaks open, revealing a paved path through trees, and Veronica kneels on the asphalt just past the frame, searching for clues. There--a boot print, waffle-sole, just at the edge of storage-room cement—same shoe Logan chose, that last morning. She puts her foot beside it to check size and yes…exactly twice as large. She continues outside, removing mini-binoculars from her purse to scan the roofline, and locates a security camera centrally placed to film the road.

She photographs that, then takes more pictures in a quick circle. Locks Logan’s top-secret hidey-hole with quick, angry efficiency before storming down the hall, Mac trailing after. Sweeps up on the front-desk with only-partially-faked drama, worthy of her husband, really, and snaps, “Items are missing. Do you have security cameras? If so, where are they? And how long do you keep the tapes?”

The kid flinches, eyes going wide, but he points at the front door. “Um, over all the entrances and exits? Plus there’s one in every hall, but I think you’d need a warrant…”

“How. Long?” Veronica persists and he shrugs.

“Um, let me ask.” He picks up the phone, quailing understandably beneath her glare, turns his back to murmur into it once the call connects. Hangs up after about thirty seconds and says, “Three months. Also, you definitely need a warrant. But good news, your husband had insurance on the contents of the unit, so you should be able to get back the value of the…”

Veronica doesn’t hear the rest because she’s already headed outside, Mac trotting, now, to keep up. As soon as they’re in the car, she turns to her friend, and in the low voice she resorts to when hanging by a thread, says, “I need feed from the entrance, exit and hallway cams, going back a week. Also from the front door of the County Clerk’s office for the day of my wedding, and anything you can get for a psychiatrist named Jane Meyer. Can you hack all that for me?”

Mac nods, and she continues, clenching her jaw and facing forwards, “Most importantly, I need it today. Because if I’m right, Logan’s death is about something much bigger than a stray car bomb. Which means evidence may start disappearing soon, assuming it hasn’t already. The Navy, at least, is clearly on the case.”

Her brain clicks through memories as Mac navigates the darkened road home. Logan, kissing her goodbye, riding off on his bicycle in a dark blue jacket and jeans. Dad texting to ask why he had to pick up the marriage license, when she was the prospective bride. That _sorry_ text, ending with a period, and the subsequent disclaimer, which only showed up when Logan did--wearing fresh-but-sweaty clothes, no less, ‘stuck in traffic’. They walked home hand-in-hand, pausing on the front porch to kiss, him standing two steps below because he’s so freaking tall, even when she wears heels…

“Doorbell cam,” Veronica murmurs, as Mac parks in front of her apartment. She leaps out of the car as the engine dies, and is halfway up the stairs before her friend follows. “It has a perfect view of the porch and street, and it feeds directly to my laptop. We’ll be able to watch the explosion. Track EXACTLY how everything went down.”

“You want to SEE Logan blow up?” Mac asks, incredulous, as Veronica reaches the door; removes a folding knife from her bag and pries up the plate covering the front-entrance surveillance apparatus. “Veronica, I agree these developments seem scary, but it can’t be healthy for you to…what’s wrong?”

V lets the plastic rectangle fall to the ground; anger and certainty coalesce inside her into a hot and furious ball. “It’s gone,” she says, gazing at the hole, dead-center in a nest of wires. “My high-tech, carefully-concealed home-security camera is missing. And it was removed by someone who knows to cover their tracks.”


	3. Chapter Three

By the time they land in Maryland, it’s dark and very late. Nicole’s fast asleep in the co-pilot’s seat, an act of blasé trust Logan could never manage—he rarely does more than doze without a locked door and Veronica. Briefly he considers leaving here there, hatch open and steps down, while he heads inside to data-dump; after a busy day of sawing hands off and whatnot she’s clearly exhausted. But they’re a team, his job is to have her six, so he uses his headphones to poke her awake. “Up and at ‘em, sunshine,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low. “Debriefs to endure, worst-case-scenarios to game.”

She groans and stretches, head tilting back. “We should have fled to a spa. You’re all over bruises…and I’d skip a meal, right this moment, for a mediocre massage.”

“Next time we’ll join the all-inclusive LUXURY black-ops team,” he agrees, hanging the headset on a chair arm and concealing a wince as he stands. “Considering how much my mother spent at spas worldwide, I feel sure they’d roll out the red carpet.”

The National Maritime Intelligence Center is a collection of rectangular grey buildings, faintly mauve against the indigo sky; it’s separated from a reflecting pool by a row of scraggly trees, and boasts an oddly-whimsical tower dead center. Its dull, corporate contours conceal spies, analysts and Coast Guard wanna-bes, as well as the world’s premier 24/7 watch floor; this displays a real-time picture of global maritime threats, thanks to the efforts of suckers like himself.

Logan locates his badge in one pocket of his gym bag as he circles the building--uses it to gain access via an unmonitored side door. Nicole lifts her brows as they push into a darkened hallway, and he winks. “Trade secret,” he murmurs, guiding her towards a set of stairs. “Look for wall signs which read TNT… that’s actually my team, not a morbid joke.”

“Transnational Threat Department,” she deciphers as he heaves open the second-floor door, then hooks a right. “Shouldn’t it be TND? And why must you lot make everything an acronym?”

“TNT sounds COOLER,” he explains. “Plus, those of us who do this for a living are nothing if not team players, right?”

He gains access to the squad room with a yank and flourishingly bows her through. She snorts exasperation but complies; and the first thing he sees inside is Ricks, yawning over coffee and playing solitaire, a rolling suitcase abandoned beside him.

“They yanked you, too?” Logan demands, falling backwards into a desk chair with an exasperated flail. It rolls two feet across the floor before skidding to a stop. “How does one schlubbily-crooked mumbling Fed do THIS much damage in an afternoon?”

“I’m the ‘afloat’ part of your GeoCell,” Ricks reminds him, laying a King on top of a Queen and shooting him a sardonic look. “Much to my chagrin. And since you’re no longer ‘ashore’, here we are back at square one.” He tosses the stack of unused cards aside and turns to face them. “I’d ask if you’re having fun yet, but the barely-scabbed head wound sends a pretty clear message.”

Logan touches his temple self-consciously—yep, sticky, he didn’t even NOTICE—and shrugs. “Any chance of a shower and uniform before I answer questions for six hours?”

Ricks grabs up a key ring and tosses it; Logan catches the thing with one hand, not bothering to move otherwise. “Room 14E,” his partner in semi-legal crime says. “It’s two doors down from the med bay, there’s a uniform on the bathroom shelf. Stop by the doc after you’re done…I’m not entirely convinced you don’t need stitches.”

“You’re such a grandma.” Logan watches him hand a similar key to Nicole before heaving himself upright. “No blood in my eyes all evening, it’s scabbed over—but I hate to make you fret.”

Ricks shakes a finger at him before returning to solitaire. Logan grins and staggers off to tend his many wounds.

14E is a cramped grey cell with a shower so small he has to crouch—he doesn’t rate the visiting-dignitary luxury space. The soap stings in his cuts and smells medicinal, and he grimaces as he thoroughly scrubs…but _never turn down a bath or a drink on deployment_ is his rule. The uniform he finds on the towel rack is one of his own—bless Ricks’ attention to detail—which makes him hope his work-locker contents are somewhere on the premises. Because it never hurts to have duplicates of equipment, especially since not all his go-bag stuff is, strictly speaking, legal. Batteries alone are at a premium in far-flung locations, and he ALWAYS runs out of anti-fungals.

A pre-packaged Dopp kit sits on the counter, which allows him to comb, brush his teeth and shave, careful not to mangle his badly-scraped palms. The right hand’s the worst, followed by his left knee, and then there’s the forehead contusion--result of his temple slamming into a gearshift. His shoulder blade still aches from the bullet that hit his flak vest a few weeks back, but he didn’t take much broken glass from the explosion. All in all, he’s in decent shape for a corpse, a mordant joke which fails to cheer him.

He opts for rubbing alcohol and butterfly bandages in lieu of the med bay, because a rakish scar is the least of his current problems; dons the uniform, buckles his watch back on, and neatly folds his suit away. Thinks about Veronica, smiling up at him as they walked home hand-in-hand, glowing the way she does on rare occasions when she’s happy. Wishes he’d had more time, as her husband, to make her glad about impulsive vows.

Sighing, he hangs his wedding ring on the dog-tag chain, tucks it into his undershirt so no one will see. Leaves the clothes, last vestige of his semi-normal life, on the rack where the uniform sat, then hangs his towel over the door to dry. Heads grimly upstairs to HQ, shoulders straight, to debrief the last few days, mouth set hard against emotion.

XXXXX

When he returns to the squad room, stomach knotting in on itself with hunger, he finds the gang back together (and arguing, as usual). “Who started the house party without me?” he demands, injecting a teenage-petulant note, as he hooks a chair with his foot and pulls it close so he can sit. “All I’ll say is, you’d better not have drained the keg.”

Ricks slides a power bar and can of coffee his direction, eliciting Logan’s most grateful look as he pops the tab. “All you missed is standard bitchery,” he says. “SOME people are more bitter than others about giving up a cushy gig.”

“He means me.” Rosa hooks an elbow over the back of her chair as she sips a bottle of Coke. She’s a deceptively-slender twenty-something highly adept at cyber carnage, and looks more like a purple-haired college student than the force of nature she is. “We had the perfect setup to stay indefinitely, if Little Miss Brexit hadn’t given away the game.”

Nicole, faintly damp and dressed in yet more utilitarian black, arches brows at this slander but maintains her sprawl. “Our crooked Fed was already suspicious, angel, he’s been hoping to silence Echolls for years. And let me ask you this—would YOU consume drinks sourced from Leo fucking D’Amato, knowing what you do about his proclivities? Under any circumstances whatsoever?”

Rosa shrugs. Says, “I’m ten years too old to be his type,” which makes Nicole square up in a way that bodes ill.

“Point taken.” Ricks raises a discouraging hand. “D’Amato’s a creep, we all know that. But maybe next time, put a sponge up your sleeve and try sleight-of-hand? Or get too busy behind the bar to socialize with customers?”

“I asked Nicole to keep an eye on Veronica,” Logan says, quiet and deep-voiced to cut the tension. “I had to make a jaunt to Mogadishu, and couldn’t guilt V into steering clear of Leo. This is on me, not her--she was just watching my back.”

“Well you’re certainly the one who’s paid.” Rosa sits straighter, folding her arms, silently combative. “Faking your own death on your wedding day? Even for the Navy’s premier drama queen, that’s exta.”

“Lookit, I don’t care who lost what or who screwed who.” The stranger across the table, whose nametag reads _Olivas_ , drops the pen he’s been messing with and lays both palms on the table, the better to fix everyone with his dark and level glare. “We’re all pros here, we know the score. What I’m concerned about, as the resident expert on the region where we’re headed, is logistics--as in a game plan, identities. Because three-fifths of this team are not Latinx, and concealing your privileged asses in rural Mexico will not be a picnic.”

Logan sighs. “I can play Argentinian,” he says, in the sing-song Italianate rhythms of regionally-correct Spanish. “Black sheep son of a sugar-industry family, and a dick, naturally…plus anti-American, and looking to get richer.” He switches back to English as Rosa cracks a smile. “I’ve got the passport and background prepped—I don’t blend anywhere, so I’ve learned to lead with what works.”

“Then I’ll be your Brazilian beauty-queen mistress.” Nicole doesn’t bother with a linguistic display, just continues to sprawl and seem bored. “No one will question that, it tickles vile racists’ fancies, and we can base out of the same residence. I’ll need another wig, though—something long and silky, lots of wave. Also, a wardrobe that suits. Echolls and I fled with nothing but the clothes on our backs.”

“You always do this,” Ricks accuses, and Logan makes a _who, me?_ gesture, even though his friend’s right. “Choose a fake persona with a shit-ton of money, so you can live it up on the government’s dime.”

“Yes, because the six-hundred square-foot apartment where I’ve spent the last five years is the lap of decadent luxury,” he says dry. “Nicole had to beat up drunk spring breakers all month, she deserves a break. Think of this as hospitality for an international colleague doing us a solid, and find her a hacienda, stat.”

Ricks rolls his eyes, makes a note, and Olivas interjects, “I video-conferenced with Keller this morning, by the way, he asked me to tell you both he’s on clean-up duty. Stashed the getaway car, cleared all cameras that might have filmed your great escape. Switched out the DNA before it made it to the test lab. Plus he mocked up a ‘Nicole Malloy’ paper trail, so it looks like she took a bribe from Casablancas and fled town. He also wanted me to mention…he’s got Mrs. Echolls under surveillance. If she starts to go off the deep end, he’ll figure out a way to help.”

“She has a crew,” Logan counters, but feels a flood of relief. “One of them will install her in a guest room, or move into our place. This isn’t Veronica’s first depression rodeo, her friends aren’t dumb enough to leave her alone.”

Ricks shoots him a look—knows more about the case that almost broke V than he probably should. But he wisely keeps silent, because Ricks owes Logan his entire continued existence. In situations where everybody around oneself is deadly, it’s always nice to have leverage.

Nicole opens her mouth, like she’s got opinions on Veronica’s coping strategies; but before she can speak, the door swings wide, and Darragut, C.O. of North American GeoCells, walks in. He’s all-business and bustling, carrying a briefcase as thick as Logan’s arm--a fair and deceptively-baby-faced guy in his fifties, he’s medium-height and doughy, with a knife-sharp watery-pale gaze. Feet uncross from chairs, uniform collars are adjusted, and the tone in the room instantly shifts.

“I gave you ten minutes to gossip,” he says mildly, locating the jack on a power-point projector and attaching it to an ultra-slim laptop. “Hope all the dick-measuring is done…because the last twenty-four hours have considerably complicated our mission.”

“Echolls automatically loses, ‘cause he’s dead,” Rosa says, with a shit-stirring quirk of lips that almost makes Logan smile. “And reincarnated as an Argentinian douchebag. Personally I think it’s the perfect cover.”

“Perfect or not, it’s a shame we had to go there--unlike most days to die, this was a bad one.” Darragut turns on the projector, whereupon they’re treated to the view of a headless corpse, poolside. “Local law enforcement stumbled across this at nine A.M. It’s what’s left of Richard Casablancas Senior, former real-estate fraudster and resident of Chino…and I think we can all deduce what happened.”

“Is that a SWORD in his back?” Olivas leans forward to peer at the slide, as Logan winces and sinks lower in his seat. This month is going to suck for Dick, and he can’t even supervise the bender.

“The hitmen responsible slipped surveillance while our team was otherwise occupied,” Darragut says mildly, causing Rosa to mouth _oooh_! “We had trackers on their gear, thanks to Echolls, but they seem to have left it all behind. So it’s a no-go on following them back to HQ.”

“Bet you a quid they hitched a ride on the weapons-trafficking plane,” Nicole says, with a disgusted glance sideways. “I had eyes on their seashore landing site, too, until D’Amato queered my day.”

“Just so we’re all on the same page,” Darragut says, casting a mild look of reproof around the room. “Since Lieutenant Olivas got pulled from narco-watch to facilitate our phase two, let’s rewind to the beginning. This is the item we’re scrambling to retrieve.”

He aims the remote to dim the room’s lights, then clicks to change slides. The gun-like object that’s been the bane of Logan’s last month appears on-screen, black and sleek with a cone-shaped tip. “Courtesy of our friends in British non-lethal crowd control, I present the weapon responsible for our embassy travails in Cuba.”

Rosa whistles soundlessly, and Olivas leans forwards. “This is causing the brain damage?” he asks. “In the embassy staff? The hearing loss?”

“A less-functional Russian-made analogue…at levels comparable to this item’s lowest setting.” Darragut glances at Nicole, who silently corroborates. “Someone’s just messing with us, over there, it’s a variation on _Go Home, Yanks_. High-powered usage can dissolve your internal organs from about ten feet. And thirty-six of these pieces are missing.”

“They were built for a prototype test program,” Nicole says, by way of explanation. “The purpose was police action in mob scenarios. We’ve had a bit of trouble, you understand, with nationalism and riots as Brexit’s drawn closer. But a lowly component-solderer seeking to line his pockets stole a crate from the assembly line--then auctioned it on the dark web before we could trace the theft. He’s in custody, but the weapons have since vanished.”

“There’s a smuggling operation that runs through Neptune,” Logan interjects, steepling his fingers. “It’s been my detail for several years, now, tracking tools of war aggregated in Eastern Europe, which move from So-Cal to Northern-Mexico cartels. They switched the delivery mode up, recently—they’re now shipping via an unethically-obtained Russian submarine—but I verified this crate turned up in the hands of the Slovenian end. We’re trying to figure out where the weapons will surface.”

“A bombing in Neptune caught our eye,” Darragut continues, “Because it targeted both a connection of El Despiadado, Olivas will fill you in on him in a minute, and relatives of a US Congressman, Daniel Maloof. We believe, at this point, that the bomb was unrelated to our mission; but Echolls did obtain kompromat on the congressman held by our Slovenian’s web operation, as well as video proof of ties to the cartel.”

“Any way bad guys can blackmail The Next JFK, we can one-up.” Logan makes a flicking gesture, to emphasize issue resolution. “Thanks to my Arabic, which Nicole had the bad grace to mock.”

Nicole makes a face, and Darragut shakes his head, cutting in. “Unfortunately, the bombing ALSO attracted the attention of an FBI agent we know to be in the cartel’s pocket. He arrived in town to monitor the situation, and run cover for two hitmen dispatched to the scene.” Darragut switches slides to show D’Amato’s FBI badge. Logan feels his gorge rise, thinking of this asshole on HIS pretty orange couch with HIS favorite person…but manages, somehow, to keep his face blank. “And when I say unfortunately, I mean it. Leo D’Amato had dealings with Echolls pre-Navy, meaning Echolls is the only witness to his commission of a major felony.”

“He sold me an underage sex tape, of my high school girlfriend and her MURDERER,” Logan says, omitting Aaron’s name since everyone likely knows. “I wanted to keep it off the web. I erased all the items he liberated from evidence, but we have witness confirmation now that he made copies—he’s got quite the home collection in that genre, in fact. It’s the hook the cartel’s using to keep him helpful.”

“We’ve left D’Amato in place while Lieutenant Gutierrez mapped their digital network,” Darragut says, gesturing at Rosa, who blows a pink bubble in response. “But he dug enough into our Neptune GeoCell in the last forty-eight hours to blow Echolls and Duperray’s covers. I’ll let Gutierrez explain the work she’s done.”

“Tracing cartel bitcoin transactions is a bitch,” is Rosa’s succinct response. “But I excel at it. We’ve got transactions between the Slavs and El Despiadado via bogus multimillion-dollar art sales--so we’re fairly certain his compound’s the crate’s destination.”

“Lieutenant Olivas has been on the ground in Chihuahua for several years,” Darragut gestures at the newbie, “so he can fill us in on the situation there.”

“Basically, three cartels are battling for dominance in the northern part of Mexico,” Olivas says, as the slide switches to a color-coded map of gang territories. “Often assisted by corrupt or affiliated local police. The federal government deplores this state of affairs, but can’t curb it with the US so eager to buy. So they’ve retreated from the region instead, enforcement-wise, consolidating power around Mexico City, and they’re letting the syndicates fight it out.”

He gestures, and Darragut clicks to another slide, which draws back to show Central America. “Unfortunately the situation is complicated by mass migration north from other countries, mostly El Salvador and Guatemala. This is a complex issue related to poverty and US policies of the eighties, but the current galvanizing issue is climate-change-related drought. People are starving, so people are fleeing, and the gangs in the North have braced to fight off foreign competition.”

Olivas gestures, a fatalistic spreading of hands. “El Despiadado’s the brains of the smallest and most threatened cartel. He’s got a hard-to-defend territory and a limited amount of cash, and there are internecine issues in his organization—he recently divorced the daughter of a powerful ally. His acquisition of these weapons is likely a Hail Mary play…he needs a guerilla-warfare edge over weakness-sensing rivals.”

“Our hope is, he plans to use these weapons in local crime-syndicate warfare,” Darragut says, quietly. “But darker scenarios involve mass production, or global dispersal, so we need to infiltrate and retrieve ASAP. Accordingly, we’ll send in a prospective buyer—that would be Captain Echolls—with Olivas performing introductions and gathering intel. Ricks and Gutierrez will web-assist from a nearby floating base disguised as a fishing vessel; and Commander Duperray of the British Secret Service will identify and demolish the target technology. I’ll now open the floor to questions.”

“I’d just like to mention that keeping this debacle off the news is key,” Nicole says, with a pointed glance in Logan’s direction. “I know you Yanks love breathless exposes and big explosions; but trust in the UK government hasn’t been this low since Prince John. The revelation of such critical mismanagement would revitalize our nationalist contingent, just ahead of the upcoming referendum. And that’s not in any Western nation’s best interests right now.”

“I’ll try to rein in my dramatic tendencies,” Logan says, sardonic. “But I can’t promise there won’t be an Angela Basset _Waiting to Exhale_ moment, when I saunter away from a compound in flames.”

Nicole rolls her eyes, Rosa snorts laughter, and Darragut says, “All right, get some sleep, comedians--some of you were up all night. Ricks will gather wardrobe and gear, and we’ll reassemble at NAS Pax River at oh-nine-hundred to put the team in the air.”

He nods at the group, collects his things, and strides out. Chairs scrape, yawns are indulged; Ricks stands up to pat Logan on the back and leans in to whisper, “Just so you know, all your clothes will be Miami Vice linen. If you’re gonna play a bad-eighties-TV weapons dealer, you might as well look the part.”

“Thank you SO much.” Logan directs a glare at his friend, who cackles and heads for the door. “I’ll have you know I watched Aaron play those roles ad nauseum. I can hit every mark necessary in my sleep.”

Ricks snorts and leaves; the room empties, except for Nicole, who shows as little disposition as Logan to find a cot and succumb to dreams. She sighs instead, sinking lower in her seat, and he asks, “Is this the part where you say ‘here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into’?”

“On the contrary—I’m impressed by how readily you shouldered blame,” she says. “I underestimated D’Amato, I’ll admit. Allowed my contempt for him to overshadow caution.”

He shrugs. “Not a lot of THERE there, IN RE that guy, so I can’t say I blame you. He comes off dumb and aw-shucks--but a secret life requires certain skills. I feel like we’ve learned our lesson, though. And once this mission draws to a close, I’m REALLY going to enjoy making him pay.”

“Mmm, it’ll be satisfying on so many levels.” She slants a look sideways at him, faintly tinged, again, with compassion—the girl really needs to harden her heart. “I think we should play this ‘relationship’ between us, this cover story, as mercenary on both parts. It’ll give us more room to maneuver, and feels easier than trying to fake love.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” He smirks, but it’s a pale effort. Nicole knows what he’s going through, there’s no use pretending. “I’m game to play things however you prefer, but trust me…I can fake just about anything.”

“Sure, but in my experience, you generally HATE doing so,” she says. “And honestly, I’m not thrilled by the idea, myself. I had a very kind boy-toy back in Neptune I currently miss, and no offense but…you’re not my type.”

Logan shrugs. “Just act like you want to convince me the feelings are real—or at some point we may need to ‘break up’, for veracity.”

He employs air quotes to emphasize, and she frowns exasperation. “And why would that be, exactly? Women not succumbing to your charms makes you less manly, per the patriarchy?”

“Well, yes,” he says, mild. “If I’m a laughingstock in sexist circles, I won’t be respected or effective. But also, the premise is unrealistic—I never fail to enchant people when I try. Son-of-a-movie-star’s blessing and curse, I’m afraid. I’m the Ava Gardner of my own life story.”

“Does your list of conquests include Veronica?” she asks, arch, and he closes his eyes, because yeah, that stings. “Did she fall under your fatal-attraction spell like these other so-called suckers?”

“Sadly, she DID,” he says. “Or we never would have dated—she was an upwardly-mobile girl until I got my damaged hands on her. But unlike most women, for the vast majority of my life, Veronica Mars cared about my feelings. So she’s someone who will…always get the best I can give, regardless of how infatuated she remains.”

“My plan sounds better and better,” Nicole observes, dry. “If the only person you DON’T have to fake affection for is one angry disaster of a girl.”

“Oh, I’m no saint,” he says, feeling tired. “I’ve always appreciated women and they like me back. But you know how it goes. I put my heart in V’s hands when I was seventeen, and I’m a no-takebacks kinda guy.”

“Maybe if we tie this mission up with a bow,” she says, over the clack of her nails, drumming on the table, “the dead could rise. Or at least lure their wives into the underworld to eat pomegranates beside them.”

“Don’t encourage me to hope,” he tells her, voice flat. “Seriously. It’s a losing game, and it only makes this situation hurt more. Besides, V would never leave her dad to run away with me. If I’m not able to bide my time in Neptune, playing second banana until he’s gone, I’m crossed off her to-do list regardless.”

“Well ain’t that a kick in the head,” Nicole says, and he smiles, opening his eyes.

“And this is just the beginnin’.” He rises, tosses a stray paperclip across the table in her direction. “Get some sleep, Duperray, that’s what I’m about to do. If we don’t, before tomorrow, we’ll both wish we had.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” she says, with an insolent salute worthy of himself. He smirks and saunters out of the room, recognizing his cue.

It’s not until he’s locked in the little cell where he changed clothes, curled on the one-blanket hospital bed with the door firmly locked, that he lets himself feel his loss.

Remembers Veronica saying, “Yeah, I guess I’ll marry you,” and lets the tears he’s been holding back since that moment come.


	4. Chapter Four

“The doorbell-cam videos download straight to my laptop, right?” Veronica pushes into her apartment without waiting for an answer. Grips the couch-back to stay upright, as Pony shoves past her and anxiously scans the street. “You changed the out-of-the-box system, explain how it works.”

“They do, but…” Mac grabs Pony’s collar as Veronica begins tossing stuff off the counter, seeking the slim-line ASUS she hasn’t seen in…God, how long? Friend and dog play tug-of-war until the door is shut. “The camera’s motion-activated. Anything that moves on your deck—a cat, a stray spring-breaker, the mailman—flips the switch. It then keeps filming for two minutes after activity ceases. The time-and-date-stamped file uploads to the cloud, and drops onto your laptop when you connect to this wi-fi.”

“Well, my laptop was active when Logan…when the bomb went off.” Veronica heads into the bedroom, rummages through junk on the dresser. “I left it running during the wedding, it was installing updates, and I…” she crumples a sandwich wrapper and uncovers the object of her search, partially-open and dead as…”FUCK!”

“You okay in there?” Mac calls as V storms out of the room. Shakes the computer in a gesture so violent her friend flinches.

“It’s out of power and I can’t find the CORD!” She spins in a circle, shoving the phone book from the table on the off-chance it’s concealing a charger. “Shouldn’t it be plugged into the bedroom wall? Wouldn’t I have made sure this thing didn’t die, mid-update?”

“Sit.” Mac leads Veronica to the couch, computer clutched to her chest. “Give me that and check your bag, you always tuck the cord in a side pocket.”

Veronica complies, then upends the purse to better pick through its contents. Mac perches on the couch arm, watching. “I should warn you—the cam files from here, plus Mars Investigations, take up a lot of disk space; your laptop runs a program every thirty days to scrub them. They’re still on the cloud though, so if by any chance you need videos older than week-before-last, I can…”

She trails off as V locates the charger, tosses the purse aside, and carries the only possessions that matter to the counter. Plugs in and switches on, twists her fingers together while she wills it to boot.

“You’ll find them in a desktop file called _porch cam_.” V hears rustling--after a moment, the re-assembled bag is placed beside her. “But Veronica…you should let me watch first. I’m worried about the toll seeing your husband die will take.”

“Like it’d be easier for you.” Veronica types frantically when the login screen appears, then turns her focus on Mac. “I NEED the truth, can you understand that? I don’t care how much it hurts. And if what I see is Logan…you know…then there’s no use pretending. And,” she takes a deep breath, “I will do the thing he wanted, as one last favor. Find a shrink, visit as often as she likes until I’m pronounced better.”

Mac nods, still hovering, and V can’t have that—won’t do this while someone’s watching. “Go work on the storage-room and county-clerk tape retrievals, okay? Then start hunting for that car purchase, because I…”

She trails off as her dash appears, locates and clicks on the porch-cam icon. Begins scrolling dates; the wedding was Wednesday the fourth. And SHIT, there must have been a lot of spring breakers or birds, because there are ten files stored for the hour in question.

“Go away,” she tells an anxious Pony when he rests his chin on her leg. Fast-forwards past the mailman, then a Clean Water Action activist, then a lizard that scuttles across the boards and settles in Logan’s potted lemon tree. Slows to watch the two of them, laughing into each other’s eyes, her in that white dress. She leans against his chest, flirting up at him beneath her lashes; he holds her close with one arm to unlock before spinning them both inside.

And then comes the moment of truth.

Logan, the boy she’s secretly loved since age twelve, literally skips down the steps, flipping keys around a fingertip; his blue sport coat strains, as always, at the shoulder seams. He looks both ways before crossing, such a responsible citizen Logan Fucking Echolls became. Rests a palm on the car-door handle before glancing upwards, smiling, and shouting some quip with a shrug.

It’s the expression that always melts her, basset-hound forehead mixed with faux-shy flirtation, GOD she needs him, how can she be expected to live without? Then he turns, swings the door wide, and every muscle in her body tenses.

But he doesn’t climb inside.

Instead he stares at the front seat for a split second, and several things happen at once. The car begins rolling; he spins and dives for a passing siren-topped coupe; and a flash whites out the camera, accompanied by a boom.

When the image re-forms, a frowsy woman stands, dazed, beside the pale vehicle. It begins rolling backwards, gathering speed…then the screen goes black as the video ends.

“Mac!” Veronica shouts, freezing the frame, heart pounding so hard she feels like she can HEAR it. “Mac, GET OVER HERE!”

“What?” Mac abandons her laptop to scramble closer, and Veronica silently replays the tape. “Oh, holy SHIT! Holy…”

“Yeah,” Veronica says, and it’s crazy, but the first thing she feels is ANGER--because she KNEW Logan didn’t want to commit to her messy ass. KNEW only his newfound determination to be a good person kept him from cutting and running as fast as…

And then she remembers Keller’s visit, the DNA test results that can’t be real, and it’s borne in on her forcibly that Logan is a SPY now. All those missions he made a game of not discussing were both life-or-death and covert. The dangers of his job are real-and-present; whatever’s happening here is bigger than their relationship.

Calm descends, the _I know what happened_ kind. Plus certainty that, whatever else Logan’s undergone in the last two weeks, he didn’t die because she forgot to check her backseat. She hasn’t negligently killed the person she most adores, become the kind of self-absorbed monster she punishes for kicks.

One minute turns into two, then three, as Veronica sits with the knowledge of non-failure, the return of hope. As she stops slowly dying inside, and prepares to resume fighting.

“He sees something in the front seat,” she says, when she’s able to dispassionately speak. “Enlarge that moment for me, fix and print it—I want to know exactly what made him flee.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Veronica, the angle is weird.” Mac takes the stool she vacates and begins to type, clicking open programs. “The camera’s filming from above, which means it mostly catches the roof, and the car door opens towards it, blocking the view…” she zooms and enhances, switches filters, then hesitantly continues, “I think this might be…a human torso with no head. Wearing a…GOD, a Comrade Quacks t-shirt.”

“In MY CAR?” Veronica grimaces, calculating timelines. Logan was only inside the apartment five minutes. He wanted to start the honeymoon early, but she was sweaty from their walk; shoved him away with a husky _good things come to those who wait_. ”That explains the body fragments they found, though. It explains…”

“But the remains matched his DNA.” Mac goes silent beneath V’s ferocious glare. “You think someone faked that, then? You believe this is a conspiracy?”

“Show me the plates on the white vehicle,” Veronica says, instead of answering. “Get me a clear image of the woman who was forced out.”

“She looks like a meter maid.” Mac zooms to screen-shot the car’s front license. “If so, there should be a work schedule online at the DMV, plus an employee roster for cross-reference. We can find a name and address there.”

The printer whirs and she fast forwards the tape, then advances frame-by-frame. The woman in question is a short, squat brunette in a police uniform, sixtyish with a slack, stunned face. “Screen-cap this video,” Veronica says, hands curling into fists. “Print the important pics for me to analyze, then circle back to those storage-facility cams. Because if Logan didn’t blow up, the first question we need to answer is…where, exactly, did he GO?”

XXXXX

Six hours later, after bullying Mac into some light felony hacking, V’s constructed a timeline of Logan’s wedding day. It raises more questions than it answers.

She’s got video of him cycling from the apartment at noon, arriving at the county clerk’s within forty minutes; he hits the coffee shop next door before heading inside, espresso in hand. A check of texts confirms he asked Dad to take over inside half an hour…video shows him running through the doors post-message, pursuing a tall brunette. The image is poor-quality, pixelated—it’s not until the woman spins and smiles that V recognizes Parker Lee.

They speak for a moment, not touching but bashful/friendly, before he points in the direction of the corner pub. She considers, nods. The two of them walk off, side-by-side, and it’s almost an hour before he returns to collect his bike.

_Something happened in the bar_ , she thinks _, probably unrelated to Parker_ —he’s focused and no-nonsense now, alert and moving rapidly, and he cycles off at a high speed that’s impressive and weirdly hot. Within thirty minutes he’s across town at the storage facility, and in less than twenty drives away in a forest-green Porsche. Mac’s traced the ownership of this poor-little-rich-boy-toy to a New Beginnings LLC, then, via labyrinthine means, to a Panamanian offshore account; Veronica never asked where Aaron’s money went, because Logan seemed disinclined to share, but clearly at least part of it’s avoiding taxes there.

Jane doesn’t have cameras at her office, which seems unwise…but V’s wall calendar lists an appointment she’s sure Logan kept. He must have parked somewhere close on return, too--he appears on the porch cam at three-thirty, not remotely out of breath. He’s be-suited and downstairs again within fifteen, climbing into an Uber. She can see him checking his cell through the window as he settles into his seat.

A GPS trace of his phone yields nothing—it’s been removed from the grid—but that’s not necessarily deliberate. In the ten days since he vanished, it would have died if left un-charged. The status of the meter maid, Delores Sanchez, is more revealing. She quit her job and vacated her apartment two days after the bomb, and the vehicle Logan stole was retired from the fleet. Mac’s attempts to track both were so fruitless, she admitted, “You’re right Veronica, evidence is disappearing.” Then turned her attention to less deliberately-obscured events.

It’s only because V’s run out of leads, without calling in a favor from the hot-to-trot Fed she’s avoiding, that she accidentally notices the plate-less white van.

She’s watching bird/squirrel porch videos, trying to guess where the Porsche might be parked, when she realizes; the van stops in the middle of the street, blocking her car from view, after Logan Ubers to the courthouse, but before the home-from-work crowd returns to bear witness. Maybe two minutes pass as it idles there, yet no one emerges. Then it rumbles quietly away, headless body apparently stashed.

“And you would have gotten away with it, too,” Veronica murmurs, zooming to capture a photo past the afternoon glare on the windshield. “If it weren’t for us meddling kids.”

She clicks to apply a filter, tapping a pencil angrily on the counter. Then drops it as the image resolves into the preoccupied face of Nicole Malloy.

XXXXX

The question of whether to involve law enforcement is thorny.

Veronica’s already run a background check on Nicole—did so the moment she targeted Quacks as Bomber Central—and nothing untoward came to light. Details were sparse, certainly, since Nicole’s in California on a green card…or was, until she disappeared a week ago. But she’s got no American record, filed no rape report or lawsuit despite her tale of woe, and hasn’t earned so much as a parking ticket during a year spent in town. V made the possibly-erroneous assumption she worked illegally at Quacks, because she only turned up on paper to assume control of the business. The plan being, V thought, to flip it to the first buyer and skate. But now….she doubts anything she’s heard about Nicole is true.

A quick skim of King Pagursky’s missing-person report reveals he was wearing, at the time of his disappearance, a Comrade Quacks t-shirt. Which means two headless bodies, both men accused of the same murder, are likely victims of those hitmen Logan identified. Big Dick’s corpse, sans trophy/proof, was left where it fell, a warning to all not to cross El Despiadado. Nobody had a clue where Pagursky went, though…except the killers, and, apparently, Nicole.

It might seem extra, to some, to accuse a former friend of cartel membership—but this is not paranoia, V’s got evidence. Plus Nicole has a secret past, flexible ethics, and SOMEHOW induced a sketchy Russian to sign over his assets and flee. Seems like she then used said assets to entrap a kid the cartel disliked, and tidied up their mess.

Would Nicole milk her connection with Logan to lure him from the scene? Would he be gullible enough to go? He reported the hitmen to law enforcement, he’s not on any crime boss’s Christmas card list.

Veronica fears the answer is yes, because he never suspects people in his friend circle—she can even see the con play out in her mind’s eye. _Logan, shaken by the explosion, is approached by a sympathetic-seeming friend; Nicole’s been watching from a safe distance to make sure the corpse is vaporized. (She deciphered, due to her friendship with Penn, what the limerick meant, and traced his pack to V’s car.) Climbing into the meter-maid vehicle, she offers to drive Logan to a hospital…and dazed, he accepts. But at the first stoplight she drugs him, then delivers him to the hitmen and skips town. After which, some cartel-bought fixer earns his keep._

Maybe El Despiadado’s even the reason Logan took his Porsche out of storage. If he got wind of a threat, while having drinks with Parker, he might have set up a plan for escape. It’s not like he believes cops will do the right thing, and he’s obviously well-supplied for self-defense.

In order to prove this theory, though, V needs a deeper dive than Mac can hack, on both Nicole and the cartel. That’s a job for a fed, ideally. But she can’t bring herself to face Leo after the e-induced flirting…it feels like betrayal of a missing loved one, akin to Logan kissing Yolanda. And although she’s unclear why, Dad trusts Marcia exactly none—sufficient reason for V to follow suit.

So she powers through a shower, orders reubens from the corner deli, and abandons a napping Mac for the Balboa County courthouse…to sweet-talk the new Sheriff into helping, for old times’ sake.

XXXXX

Lamb’s former den hasn’t changed much since Neptune incorporated, and Veronica’s tangles with the law migrated north. It’s shabbier, sure, because the rich now pay for protection elsewhere; but what it’s lost in polish, it makes up for with improved ambience. The town proper’s more corrupt than ever, but the county’s cleaned up its act, and that’s one-hundred-percent due to a steady hand at the tiller.

A glimpse of her reflection in the front window has her self-consciously smoothing her hair; glamour hasn’t been a priority for years, but the last two weeks set a new low. She practices a smile, decides it looks like a grimace, and dons the blank face that protected her in high school instead. Squares her shoulders, steels herself, and commits to performing normalcy in pursuit of truth.

Inside, she waves at Mellie, the middle-aged receptionist who took over when Inga retired; holds up the bag of food and gestures towards the back. Mellie’s on the phone but gestures V through, and she travels the hall with a pang, glancing away from the interrogation rooms. High school Logan’s not in there, hands cuffed and face buried in folded arms, and her subconscious needs to stop torturing her this way.

The Sheriff’s door is shut, so she knocks perfunctorily before pushing it open-- never give a mark the chance to say no. Gets a quick glimpse of Balboa’s finest scarfing salad, before he stands abruptly at the sight of her, and vinegar-dressed lettuce cascades to the floor.

“Veronica!” Norris Clayton swipes at the stain on his slacks while starting forward in greeting--then awkwardly ceases both motions. “How are you doing? I thought about stopping by when I heard, but…”

“I’d say _never better_ ,” she quips, cutting him off—it feels calming, somehow, to slip into Caustic PI Persona. Easier, and more her style, than wailing and rending hair. “But clearly you’ve seen the evening news. I am, however, functional again. And I’ve got an urgent matter under investigation with which I need your help.”

“Wow.” He waves a hand to indicate she should sit, kicks lettuce jerkily to one side before following suit. “Pretty surprised you’re working so soon, but all you’ve got to do is ask.” He makes a face. “I’m about ninety percent sure you’ve known that since junior high.”

“Certainly you were a knight in faded flannel in tenth grade,” she says, and his face softens with unwelcome sympathy.

“Sure…but tragically, you were more interested in the prince of darkness.” Norris’s voice is gruff but kind; she grits her teeth against the flood of emotion, reminds herself Logan’s not confetti. She has no idea, currently, where her husband IS, which—considering who she married—no doubt means trouble. But he climbed into a car of his own free will, and drove away unharmed. So she’s got that going for her, which is nice.

“How much have you heard about what he did for a living? My…Logan. He switched to an intelligence track two years ago.”

“I thought he was an analyst?” Norris sits back and folds his hands on his chest, letting her meander towards a point. “Isn’t that the job description? Keep an eye on current events, brief the personnel who deploy?”

She raises her brows, because this is not how she, personally, viewed Logan’s new career. Very faintly, Norris blushes. “I was thinking about joining the Army for a while--you know, it suited…my skill set. I studied up. Figured when he…when you two…got serious…” He trails off. “Flying jets is dangerous, and Echolls was always that guy who knew everything about everybody, anyway.”

This is so patently true, Veronica finds herself impressed. “Before the explosion, he did me a favor; asked a friend to gather information on a case. I’m starting to think what happened to him was bigger than a backpack bomb, but I need data on three international criminals to be sure. That’s fighting above my weight, as a lowly PI. I hoped you might have access to certain databases you’d be willing to share on the down-low.”

He picks up an envelope, taps the corner distractedly on his desk blotter, studying her with a frown. “We do sometimes trade information with other law enforcement agencies. But…if I start asking about foreign nationals, the Feds or even Interpol are going to want to know why.”

“Is there an expert witness I could tap, then? Someone who studies cartels, maybe wrote a book and can identify major players? I don’t want friends of my enemy knowing I’m looking. And no offense to nearby deputies, but you’re the only cop in Neptune I trust.”

His brow furrows. “But aren’t you close to that Fed who was in town last month? Because I heard…” He pauses, succumbing to the almost-blush again before deciding not to elaborate, and Veronica’s glad. Shouting _PARTY DRUGS AND SELF-SABOTAGE DON’T MIX,_ while trying to convey professionalism, would be another in a series of bad-choice impulse moves. “You know, there IS one person I could ask,” he says, after taking a moment to recover. “But the questions should come from me. What information, specifically, do you need?”

V grabs her bag, extracts the folder she prepped for Norris’s inevitable concession. “The two guys on the top are hitmen, native-Mexican employees of El Despiadado.” She hands it over. “They were recently in Neptune, and likely ginsu’d Casablancas. The woman is a British local business owner, her club was targeted by the bomber; she sold to Casablancas, let him bribe her to leave town. Mainly, I need to know whether the three of them are connected. Also, if you could figure out where they’re currently holed up, that would be icing on the cake.”

He flips through pages, focused and still--reminds her of Logan, that all-consuming absorption. “You think Epner was working with the Mexican mob?”

“I don’t know,” she says, which is a lie--she’s met plenty of loner-psychopaths, understands the type better than she’d like. “I’m afraid Logan and I ran afoul of El Despiadado, though. And I’d like to be prepared, in case more decapitation’s on his agenda.”

Taking a business card from his desk holder, Norris flips it to write on the back. “This is my cell,” he says. “Text me a contact number, I’ll get in touch when I’ve collected what I can.”

She nods, tucking the card away, and he leans forward on both forearms. “In the meantime, though, Veronica, be careful, okay? Cartels are full of bad people, and you’re maybe not thinking straight. If you get kidnapped and dragged across the border, I’m honestly not sure I can help.”

“Noted.” She sets the sandwiches on the table with a muted splat. “Replacement lunch, since I made you torpedo yours. Oh, and just from personal experience? Tide stick’s the best way to get grease stains out of a uniform.”

“Thanks,” he says, rising as she does; she nods and bustles out before he tries to comfort her. Sees him, from the corner of her eye, sink to the floor, and with a grimace, begin to collect lettuce.

Mac’s still crashed on the fold-out when V returns, slightly snoring with Pony sprawled beside her. The dog lifts his head and whuffs as she walks past, so she scratches his head; continues to the bedroom, leaving the door open so he can follow.

He pads in as she’s texting Norris her number, and setting the cell on the nightstand. Whines as she lies on Logan’s side, burying her face in his pillow. They stare at each other for a moment, V and her husband’s canine doppelganger; she pats the mattress with one hand.

Pony hops up, making the frame squeak and shudder. Turns in one neat, compact circle before settling, his skull pressed to Veronica’s chest. She throws an arm across his warm, bath-needing body, and promptly drifts into restless sleep.

In her dream, Logan’s lying beside her--following her hairline with one fingertip, tucking stray strands behind her ear. “Where did you go?” she asks, narrowing her eyes against the delicate touch, always so surprising considering the size of his hands. “It was our wedding day, and you vanished without a trace.”

“You know what they say about bills coming due.” He traces the bridge of her nose, flashing that faint, one-corner-of-the-mouth smile she could never resist. “The crowd with torches and pitchforks reached critical mass, Veronica. Now it’s up to you to stage a rescue.”

“You mean you need my help?” she asks, and he grins for real. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Well, you married me.” He extends an arm to pull her close; she goes into the only lover’s embrace that ever felt safe. “And if that’s not a wonder that will never cease, I think they should re-define the phrase.”

XXXXX

V wakes to a text alert from Norris ( _might want to check your mail_ ); sits dazed for a minute despite the message’s importance, haunted by the echo of her dream. _You know what they say about bills coming due_ …the imaginary words tease a memory she can’t grasp. They feel like a clue, in a way that trumps subconscious logic, but she can’t connect the dots.

Mac appears in the doorway, sleep-rumpled, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a padded envelope in the other. She tosses the latter on the bed at V’s feet. “THIS was just dropped through our mail slot by Norris Clayton in jeans.” She nudges a drowsy Pony aside so she can sit on the bed’s corner. “What, exactly, have you been up to while I lay sleeping?”

“This and that.” V sets her cell down to tear the flap, yawning so widely her jaw cracks. “I can’t believe I dozed off. I haven’t gone under that deeply since…”

Her thought dies unspoken as she gets a good look at the stapled papers. The first page features a map of Chihuahua, Mexico, a red arrow pointing to a town called Cuauhetemac. Below is a satellite photo of a retro armed fortress, complete with guard tower, wall and locked iron gate.

And beneath THAT, a cell snap taken between what looks like a donkey’s ears, of a black limousine idling at said gate. Lozano, the guy V saw at Weevil’s chop shop, is approaching the car at an amble, dressed in loose white linen, kicking up dust. And Nicole, looking considerably more glam, is handing him an envelope through the limo’s rear window.

Veronica’s teeth grind—sometimes she hates being the smartest person in the room. Flipping the page, she finds a draft article by investigative journalist Martina Vasquez, marked in red by some zealous editor, then Xeroxed. V snorts, wonders briefly how Norris came by this before deciding ignorance is bliss. Martina’s wily and remains gorgeous in her mid-forties, and Norris is a buff guy with all the dirt a reporter could want.

Neptune’s most intrepid member of the press saw Big Dick’s corpse, it seems—she compares the execution style to unsolved murders in Mexico, then begins an exegesis on the ‘signatures’ of various gangs. El Despiadado’s is a tale as old as time; idiot kingpin trades wife for younger, less-connected model. V skims the details since she knows this song. The article ends by hinting that the besieged cartel is massing, representatives from all corners flocking to the fortress in question. Vasquez speculates on what the seeming summit could mean, and closes with predictions of a bloodbath (from which authorities will, naturally, steer clear).

Wordlessly, V hands the pages to Mac, who whistles when she sees the photo. Evicting Pony from the bed, she stands, rubbing both eyes with the heels of her hands. “So we’ve got Pagursky killed in the cartel’s signature move, Lozano and Mendoza present with machetes in hand, Nicole dumping the headless body in my car, and these two at El Despiadado’s HQ afterwards. What we DON’T have, though, is a clue what they did with Logan. Other than caught him, since he hasn’t turned up.”

“We can’t even be sure of that,” Mac cautions, as V heads to the dresser to tie up her hair. Adds, in response to a sardonic over-the-shoulder look, “I’m serious. He could be in hiding. Maybe someone accused him of murder for the fourth time, after he drove away.”

“Ooh, do you one better—what if he’s got AMNESIA!” Veronica doubles the elastic band, yanks it angrily tight. “Or he’s secretly a European prince, and ran off to brood in his castle. Come on, wouldn’t you have watched the explosion, just to make sure the body was incinerated? And wouldn’t you try to silence a witness who saw its original state?”

Mac nods; does V the service of not mentioning the obvious. If Nicole DID cross paths with Logan, he’s probably long dead. “I think we should track the meter maid’s car,” she says, instead. “There’s a major intersection with a traffic cam a block away, on his backwards trajectory. Plus a Sac-n-Pac with a security setup, which might show whether he went straight or turned.”

“Go to town,” V says, and heads to the fridge for the last of Shae’s tuna casserole.

The traffic cam is a bust—apparently Logan ran no reds, even driving in reverse—and the Sac-n-Pac proves to record to tape. It takes two hours and a Southern-accented in-person sob-story to coax a callow clerk out of the correct one. They watch the footage on an ancient nineties device V keeps solely for this purpose; the quality is so bad she can barely identify her own husband. He sits blankly behind the wheel for a moment, again messing with his phone, before rolling off-screen, headed north. None of the adjacent lights provide a clue where he went.

“If we report him missing,” Veronica muses, touching his grainily-freeze-framed face, “We alert whoever hid his disappearance we’re digging. Also, the perp who planted the bomb is in custody--they’ll spend more time figuring out who WAS in the car than searching for an adult who wasn’t. Cold feet post-wedding isn’t an unheard-of scenario.”

“But?” Mac asks, as V lapses into reverie.

“BUT, law enforcement could subpoena his phone records. Find out who he talked to, maybe even access his texts. See his browser history, apps, recent photos. Everything backed up to the cloud is fair game.”

Mac sighs, folding her arms on the bar. “What’s his service provider?” she asks wearily. “And do you have any idea if he encrypts?”

“I’ll buy you an all-expense-paid vacation,” V says, gratitude swelling in her heart. “Anywhere you want to go, guaranteed.”

“Logan’s my friend, too,” Mac says, instead of replying. “And the only one of you heathens interested in saving this planet. Now please say it’s not AT&T before I come to my senses and change my mind.”

XXXXX

Mac’s deep into firewalls and impenetrable code, cursing beneath her breath while chugging Red Bull, when two knocks sound on the apartment door. Veronica looks up from screenshots of Logan’s Great Escape just as the lock twists and Dad swings inside.

“You won’t believe this, honey, I found the sweetest…” he pauses in the open doorway as V sets down the page she’s holding. Frowns. “Well, this is not the scene I expected, based on my last visit. What are you crazy kids up to?”

He pushes Pony aside with his cane, then uses it to shut the door; Mac keeps typing, oblivious. Dad takes his sweet time walking to the couch, and sets a greasy, hamburger-scented bag on the end table before sitting. “Is this…Logan?” he asks, lifting a photo of her husband diving for the white car--and for some reason, his disbelieving tone is the thing that breaks her.

Veronica begins to cry, silent, heaving sobs like she hasn’t in front of witnesses since the night Lilly died. Folds at the middle with emotional release, burying her face in her knees. Dad’s hand comes down on her skull, a reassuring light pressure; but she can hear pages rustling past her wheezing breath, even as he soothes.

“He’s not dead,” she manages, once she’s released enough emotion to force out words, talking into frayed threads where fabric’s worn away. “Or at least, he wasn’t killed by the bomb. But we don’t have any idea, right now, where he could possibly…”

“Mother FUCKER!” Mac yells, startling them both, and V’s head jerks up as she rips off headphones and throws them across the room. “It’s WIPED! His cloud account is wiped, I didn’t even realize that was POSSIBLE! You win, Veronica, I’m sure now the government knows something’s hinky. That Keller guy was here feeling you out—the Navy must be investigating.”

“What Keller guy?” Dad asks, looking up from the pictures he’s comparing, and Mac double-takes.

“Mr. Mars, where did you come from?” she spares a glance for Veronica, who wipes her eyes with one sleeve. “I guess you heard…the news?”

“I need you girls to walk me through this.” Dad beckons Mac towards the couch…Veronica shoves Pony off the end to make room. “From the beginning, and don’t leave anything out—my brain may not be toast after all, but it ain’t as sharp as it used to be.”

Veronica sniffs, reaching past Dad for the food bag, and then, mouth full of double-double, complies.

It takes almost an hour of recite-and-repeat while Dad peppers them with questions ( _did you watch the doorbell video of the camera being removed? Have you tracked Nicole’s whereabouts the day of the bomb?_ ) He keeps a list in a Moleskine pulled from his windbreaker pocket, directs Mac to construct a timeline. Once they’re done, he silently peruses both. “I keep coming back to the car, Veronica, and the will. It seems to me Logan had notice of a death threat, and took precautions BEFORE City Hall. The text, the survival gear--he considered just running. But it felt more important to marry and provide for you, even though doing so almost got him killed. Then this whole thing with Keller…have you considered that Logan alerted his superiors? And he stopped by to check on you?”

Veronica sits up straighter, because no, she hasn’t, and Dad holds up a hand. “My point is this; Logan knew he couldn’t bring you along. Nothing he did makes sense, otherwise. It’s possible you’re right, and the cartel’s abducted him. But it’s also possible he’s in witness protection, while the intelligence community unravels a threat. And if that’s the case, locating him would endanger you both.”

“Since pursuit’s dead in the water, I guess the point is moot.” V sighs, slumping lower on the couch. “Given enough resources, we could track his movements, and Nicole’s, around town. But that does us no good if he’s at the bottom of the Pacific, or….wearing a fake beard in some Appalachian shack.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Dad opens the fast-food bag, peruses the contents. Selects a container of fries before offering the rest to Mac. “You remember that expensive dive watch I got him, after he risked his life tackling the bridge sharpshooter? The gift he didn’t want to accept, because I spent half my reward money on it?”

Veronica nods, hope blooming, and Dad winks, taking a healthy bite. “There’s a GPS tracker hidden among the gears. Had it installed special, it runs off the battery. If he’s still wearing that thing—and he treasures it, I’m sure he is—I can find him no matter where he goes.”

XXXXX

The relevant equipment is locked in Dad’s desk, so V washes her face, downs a handful of CBD gummies to prevent more emotions, and piles back into the rental. Once at MI, a concerning fifteen minutes ensues as Dad checks one drawer after another before locating the tracker in the filing cabinet. He said the memory-loss thing was a product of mixed-up medications, though, and Dad wouldn’t lie about something important. So she lets worry drift away, and focuses on the task at hand.

Once assembled, the gear proves ancient—ten years old, based on the make, so it only pings certain satellites, and stores data for forty-eight hours, max. It takes forever to boot, too, while Veronica’s clenched jaw begins to ache; but eventually Logan’s icon materializes in…

Cuauhtemac, Chihuahua. About fifteen miles from Martina’s Fortress of Doom.

V exhales strongly through her nose—of course she was right, she’s always right. Pulls out her phone to check available flights, just as Mac asks, “Has it changed locations in the last two days?”

V sets the cell on the desk, nausea overwhelming her as she takes Mac’s meaning—if he’s still, long-term, he might be BURIED. She thinks, for a second, she’ll pass out, but Dad says, “Yep, it moved a few hours ago. Into the nearby town, stationary for forty-five minutes, then back. Veronica, are you all right? Mac, get her a soda out of the mini-fridge. How long has it been since you’ve eaten a meal?”

He stands, laboriously, like he intends to give her the chair, and V shakes her head. “I had lunch.” She accepts the cold, open Coke she’s handed and takes a swig. “I’m fine. I know we can’t get a photo, prove it’s Logan wearing the watch--images on Google Earth are months old. But could we at least drill down and see the locations where the tracker spent time?”

“On it.” Mac removes her laptop from her bag, and within minutes they’re studying a Spanish-colonial ranch, framed by an elaborate gate bearing the placard ‘Cielo Nocturno’.

“This place is owned by an importer/exporter, mostly textiles, his name is Alfredo Barrera.” Mac types for a minute, squints as she reads. “He’s currently residing in Portugal--no word on who lives there in his absence. Family, possibly, he’s in business with two sons.” She glances up. “If Logan’s being held on these premises, you can expect a paid security service. With all the gang activity, it’s not the safest neighborhood…whether the Barrera family’s in bed with the cartel or not.”

“LAW ENFORCEMENT can expect a security service, you mean.” Dad casts a concerned glance at Veronica. “I’d be no good down there, I can barely walk without a hip replacement, and the two of you speak almost no Spanish. What we need to do is ring up Leo, Veronica. He’s a good egg, he’ll figure out a plan.”

“Nobody’s calling Johnny Law.” V crosses to the printer as the ranch picture whirs out, stuffs it in her bag. “Someone with access to police databases is hiding evidence--an official record of our suspicions paints a target on our backs. Those hitmen were in Neptune a week ago, though, winning friends and influencing people. If we need insight into what they’re up to, I know exactly who to ask.”

XXXXX

V leaves Dad and Mac chasing down remaining details and drives into the barrio, registered weapon in her holster, Taser close to hand. Parks a block from the house where Weevil holds court, like the small-time crime-boss he’s become; squares her shoulders before marching inside.

Weevil wouldn’t have saved her from the hitmen if he didn’t still harbor some decency. And he’s the only person she knows who’s met the guys she’s hunting.

He’s at a picnic table, of course he is, with a bunch of the same losers who followed him around in high school. There’s a bucket of Coronas on ice atop, bad pop music blaring from a battered boom box. A grill spews meat-scented smoke in one corner of the sun-scorched yard, and a handful of kids take turns on a swing set.

She watches, still unnoticed, from the gate as he opens a lockbox; hands an envelope to a kid in a backwards baseball cap, then offers a complex handshake before shooing him away. _Paying the foot soldiers_ , she thinks, with a surge of irritation. _He used to want to change things for the better, the way Logan did, the way I did. And now he’s no better than Liam Fitzpatrick, minus the homicidal crazy._

If she’s being honest, seventy percent of her anger with Weevil stems from wasted potential. If Logan could rise up against every tabloid, abuser, crooked cop and celebrity enabler, become the epitome of decency, why can’t Weevs work an honest job? It’s not like he lacks brains, or drive. He could earn an online degree, go back to refurbishing custom cars, even start a detective agency and hire his needy friends. But he’d rather be a big man in leather, still chasing cheap thrills while barreling towards middle age. And speaking as someone who’s recently tried second teenager-hood, and found it lacking? V’s a reconfirmed skeptic about lying down with dogs.

She’s here to help Logan, though--it’s well-established she’ll move mountains to save HIM--so she grits her teeth and marches into the fray. Watches the crowd turn and fall silent as she cuts a swath, just like in high school, _don’t show fear_. Felix Toombs is too dead to play second banana, but Hector’s still willing, and he cackles when she approaches before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“I need your help,” she announces, gaze fixed on Weevil. She stops before him, and his own eyes go briefly big. Then he narrows them and sits back, playing for the audience. Cool bad-boy with a Harley, mocking the dumb guera wasting his time.

“Who me?” he points at himself, a Logan move missing the requisite coy sarcasm. “The low-level hood? Oh, no, no, no, I think you misunderstood our last encounter.” He grabs a beer from the bucket, twists it open, as his friends watch with thinly-disguised glee. “Just ‘cause I didn’t want your blood on my hands doesn’t mean we’re pals. That rescue was the end for us, V--we’re even, done. You need to scurry back to your beach-front property, find some other sucker’s life to ruin.”

“I have to go to Mexico,” she says. “And I need information and a translator. Normally I’d steer clear of your burgeoning criminal enterprise, but right now I’m out of options.”

“Mexico?” Weevil’s brows raise, incredulous. “This I gotta hear. Vinh, keep an eye on those burgers, yeah? V, you come with me.”

He gets up, laborious, never really recovered from that freshman-year knee injury; leads her inside the no-frills ranch house with a jerk of his head. Stops in a living room furnished straight from the discount store and, without bothering to sit, says, “What the hell are you doing, V? You think I saved you for kicks? You can’t mess around in Mexico right now, you’ll get your brains blown out. You shouldn’t even be HERE.”

“I HAVE to go,” she insists, shifting her purse on her shoulder. “I’m staging a rescue. It’s urgent, in fact, I’m leaving today.”

“Well, I ain’t tagging along, I’ve got forty mouths to feed.” He gestures towards the yard. “Plus, this may be tough for your white-lady brain to comprehend, but just because my last name’s Navarro doesn’t mean I’ll blend. Here on the border, people speak Spanglish, most of us not that well. Everybody interior would know I’m American the second I opened my mouth, and I’d grasp probably a third of what they said. Also, you live in a self-righteous privilege bubble, so could be you don’t realize this--but the row of states south of TJ is no-man’s-land, these days.”

“I get it,” she says. “That’s why I’m willing to offer fifty thousand dollars—everything in my retirement account—for advice, protection, and bought loyalty during the trip. Payable on return, natch; you double-cross me all the time, I’m not an idiot.”

“Okay, is this one of those dreams where I wake up feeling bummed?” He folds his arms, the line between his brows belying faint concern. “Because if so, why aren’t you Eva Mendes, and where’s the bubble bath and champagne?”

“Do you want my money or not?” V asks, exasperated. “Because if no, the first private security company in the yellow pages is my next stop.”

“What’s this all about?” He tilts back to sit on the couch arm. “Because, since fucking-rude honesty’s our policy these days, per you? When I’ve been low before, you’ve never offered me a dime.”

“Logan’s not dead,” she says, and the words feel strange, still, spilling from her mouth. Like she seems as in-denial as her husband did, insisting his mother didn’t drown. “El Despiadado’s minions took him. And I need help getting him out of the place he’s being kept.”

Weevil stares for a moment, then bursts out laughing--not the reaction she expected, but infuriating all the same. “Say what?” he demands, after a moment, subsiding with a shake of his head. “V, your theories were always off the wall, but you are TRIPPING. They found body parts all up and down the street, it was on the evening NEWS.”

“Hey, don’t take my word.” She extracts the file she’s compiled from her purse, throws it on the coffee table. “See for yourself.”

He opens it, pages through the pictorial history—winces at what’s probably the headless body, lips soundlessly pursed. Turns his serious, dark Bambi gaze up to her, once he’s done. “Okay, you win. Some other poor bastard was in the car. But these don’t look like anyone took him, V. These look like he ran.”

“He wouldn’t,” she says, staunchly. “We’d just gotten married. Besides, I know exactly where he is right now…the same town as Lozano and friends.”

Weevil’s smile holds a metric ton of cynicism. “Sounds like someone sold you swampland in Florida. Lozano’s got zero use for Echolls, and your boyfriend’s no good. Maybe if you’d listened when I told you he beat up Lilly, you wouldn’t be crying ‘cause he hit the road.”

“DUNCAN’S the one who hurt Lilly.” V squares up, hands on hips. “He had violent epileptic fits. You’ve been wrong about Logan all along…which isn’t surprising, the two of you played Sharks and Jets for half a decade.”

“Okay, let’s play it your way. IF Lozano took him, you had the world’s shortest marriage--he’s not a guy who toys with prey. Probably the only part of Echolls that made it to Mexico is his head, in a bag; and if you chase that down, you’ll be next on the chopping block.” Weevs jerks his jaw, a quick, negating shake, stands. “I ain’t helping you commit suicide, Veronica, I don’t want your money that bad. Go home and call the cops. You’re blonde and pretty, and you just inherited Echolls’ millions. Maybe they’ll pretend to help, instead of locking you up for his murder—which is what they’d do to me.”

“Fine,” she says, fighting the sense of angry hopelessness jangling along her nerves. “Fine, then I guess you’re right--I guess this IS the end. Thank you for saving Dad at that cabin, because I couldn’t live without him. And I hope you won’t end up back in jail for all the crimes you’re committing…although I’d be dumb to lay odds.”

She grabs up the file, spins, and stalks out, pushing past people standing in the hall. Marches to her car and tries to shove the key into the ignition but it won’t fit, won’t fit. She’s so FURIOUS, she thinks she might combust.

Smacking the steering wheel, she wills herself not to cry again; then there’s a knock on the passenger window. She looks up to see Carmen Ruiz peering through, some barely-not-a-teen beside her. Rolls it down with one quick fingertip jab.

“I heard some of what you said in there,” Carmen admits. Her soft, kind voice, like her face, hasn’t changed much with time. “And I think we might be able to help. You mind giving us a ride?”

Veronica pops the locks in lieu of a reply, and they climb in. Carmen’s dressed pretty much like V is, in jeans and a flannel over a t-shirt, her long, dark hair loosely braided. The kid in back is young, skinny and intense-eyed, probably a relative; he looks like her around the mouth and nose. “Where to?” V asks, managing to make the key work, and cranks the engine with a vindictive jerk.

“Six blocks down, hook a right on Hunter’s Chase.” Carmen settles in her seat, shoots a quick, assessing glance sideways. “You picked the wrong day to ask favors of Weevil, by the way—I came running after Fernie just now to say the same thing. His sister took off somewhere without telling anyone; he won’t admit it, but he’s pretty worried.”

_His sister?_ V wonders which one. She has a vague recollection of a lanky senior with attitude, back when they were freshmen; but both that girl and the eldest, Ofelia’s mom, took off for LA before Weevs graduated high school. “It wasn’t a favor I needed so much as a bodyguard,” she says. “And tour guide, so to speak. I planned to pay.”

“Funny thing.” Carmen entwines her fingers, glances up wryly. “My mom, you know, she’s a citizen now, but she came over illegally before I was born. Her whole family, they’re from Chihuahua City. I’ve got all kind of uncles and cousins who still live there now.”

Veronica raises both brows, and Carmen persists. “Another funny thing, you’re willing to pay, and we need money. Not fifty thousand, that’s too much, but twenty. Fern, here, he wants to be an engineer, but he can’t save enough to pay for the school he likes. And he’s NOT gonna work for Weevil to earn it, even if he DID hear from his stupid friends how to make tons of cash fast.”

“Oh, but you’ll sell out?” The kid leans forward between seats, sounding as tense and focused as he looks. “You could go to jail just as easy as me, dumbass.”

“Weevil wouldn’t ask me to do anything dangerous…he likes me.” She shoves him back into the seat, and the carelessness with which she does so screams _sibling_. “Likes-me, likes-me, he always has. He thinks of me as a delicate flower.”

The kid snorts and Carmen smiles, faint and secretive. “Anyway, we go together, Veronica, you have a whole crew of guys living in the town next door. They know the ropes, they can protect you while you poke around. And you get to keep more than half the money you would have spent otherwise. I frankly don’t see how you can turn this deal down.”

“I don’t either.” V turns right as directed, pulling over before the house at which Carmen points. She yanks up the parking brake and fixes both passengers with her own determined gaze. “And as long as you’ve got a valid passport? I say we skip the handshake and get right to packing.”

**Author's Note:**

> No, Veronica's behavior does not diverge from canon...she does not sleep with Leo here, FWIW. But Nicole believes otherwise, and Logan can't ask, so sad misunderstandings are afoot.


End file.
